Clean Getaway
by VampirePam
Summary: The burnished wood of the floor was a good three shades lighter where John's rag had been rubbing it. This was nothing, however, compared to John's hands: his skin had been rubbed raw, and the tips of his fingers stained bone-white.


The stench of bleach hit Harold the second he walked through the door. It seemed to permeate the entire space, wafting through every nook and cranny, across the volumes old and new on the shelves, on its way to the entranceway.

A horrifying image of John, dead on the floor, as some maniac doused the place in bleach sprang unbidden to Harold's mind. Though his mind consequently advised caution, Finch's feet seemed to have different ideas, and they were soon carrying him to the main room.

To his relief, John was kneeling on the floor, definitely alive and seemingly alone. The relief lasted only a few seconds, however, as the finer details of the picture came into view.

A broken coffee cup lay in pieces by John's left knee, the smashed saucer a few inches to its right. The man himself was rubbing insistently at the planks of wood in front of him with a rag soaked in what was surely a mixture of water from the bucket by his side and the bleach Harold had smelled upon entering.

John's purpose seemed absolute. He did not even flinch when Bear barked a joyous greeting from his bed upon seeing Harold, nor when Harold knelt down opposite him to properly survey the damage.

The burnished wood of the floor was a good three shades lighter where John's rag had been rubbing it. This was nothing, however, compared to John's hands: his skin had been rubbed raw, and the tips of his fingers stained bone-white.

A shiver ran down Harold's spine. Everything had seemed fine when he'd gone out a few hours prior. How long had John been doing this to himself? He leaned closer and ventured, "John..."

A few seconds passed before John said simply, "My coffee." His fingers did not stop or even slow their relentless back-and-forth over the wood. "I dropped the cup. Didn't want you coming back to a mess."

Finch laid his hands over John's wrists and squeezed, just enough that his hands ceased their scrubbing motion. "I think it's clean now."

John remained statue still for far longer than Harold was comfortable with. Finally, he nodded and allowed Harold to remove the bleach-soaked rag from his hands and deposit it in the bucket of water.

Harold didn't much want to let go of John for even a second in his current condition - as if he were a delicate and precious object, precariously balanced - but those burns needed immediate treatment, and every way he could envision extracting himself from the floor involved the use of both hands.

Once standing, he placed one of those hands on John's shoulder. "Why don't we go get you cleaned up?"

Another torturous pause, another nod. He rose without a word and let Harold lead him to the sink. Harold, meanwhile, was quietly thankful that John was at least aquiescent, if not communicative.

He guided John's hands beneath the stream of cold water. A slight flinch, then more tacit acceptance. Harold didn't even know if his partner registered what was happening.

Five more minutes of silence was all Harold could stand. He generally appreciated silence, but not now. Not with John. Not like this. He only hoped speaking wouldn't make things worse. "I take it this wasn't just about the coffee?"

A minute or two of silence against the rhythmic backdrop of running water, then, "It was an accident. I was thinking about...their faces. The blood on the floor, all pooling into that bright spot under the coffee table. Then the porcelain was broken and the coffee was spreading everywhere and I...I needed to clean it. Like I used to. Scrub and scrub and scrub until there was nothing left...nothing left of what I'd done."

Harold placed his spare hand tentatively on John's forearm and squeezed lightly. He could kick himself for leaving him alone all afternoon. He'd had more than enough time to learn just how good his partner's poker face could be. And even by their standards, this had been a bad one.

The number had come far too late. Harold had known that the second they saw their man - Jack Dennis, 45, ex-military, trained killer - on the news with a gun pointed at his family. But John, he'd not only refused to give up, but had rushed headlong into danger just in time to nearly get himself shot trying to protect three innocent people who'd bled out twenty minutes prior.

While Harold mentally reprimanded himself, John lapsed into silence again, letting the water stream down over his injured hands. This time, Harold let it stay that way. He knew from experience there were some things that shouldn't be forced.

Ten more minutes passed, enough to comply with the directed treatment time for chemical burns. He turned off the water and maneuvered John into a seated position on the edge of the bathtub. Still more silence.

He reached for John's wrist and lifted his hand to the light. "You're fortunate, Mr. Reese." In retrospect, perhaps a poor choice of words. "There doesn't seem to be any permanent damage. A few days in some gauze and they should be as good as new."

Unspooling the gauze he'd lifted from the medicine cabinet, Harold carefully wrapped each of John's fingers before moving on to the rest of his hand. This ritual was carried through for the right first, then the left. All the while John simply stared into the distance - a half-drowned sailor, absently searching for land.

Harold felt helpless. It was one thing to contain physical damage, but emotional? He simply didn't feel qualified for that. He'd hurt, and he'd lost, but he'd never done the kinds of things John had. Never experienced firsthand what war could do to a person. The only thing he could think to do was to contact the only person they both knew who had.

It was when he stood to call Carter, however, that John lunged for him. His damaged hands, hands that Harold had seen snap a man's neck in seconds, were suddenly clutching desperately at the fabric at the back of Harold's jacket.

Then he was motionless again, except for the shaking that Harold could feel begin to course through his frame. Harold felt frozen himself. He'd seen John react to situations in one of two modes - steely resolve or cold rage. This sort of untempered abandon felt as alien to him as the sudden realization that, qualified or not, John needed _him _to be his anchor against it.

Harold took a deep breath and willed his shaking hands forward. He ran his fingers back through John's hair, as he was accustomed to doing in less strenuous circumstances, until they were resting at the base of his neck.

Another surge of motion, and John's face was buried in Harold's vest, his forehead pressing into the topmost button. The shaking was now shuddering, and John's hands gripped tighter still. It had to hurt, but something told Harold that letting go would hurt him more in the end.

Harold kept his arms around John, his fingers tracing calming arcs over his scalp. Triage. Damage control. That was all he could do until John was ready to stop hurting himself.

The minutes ran together, until at last Harold felt John's body still, his breathing even out. When he spoke it was barely more than a whisper. "I thought I was done having blood on my hands, Harold."

"This was _not_ your fault," Harold said, tilting John's head so their eyes met. "We were too late from the second the number dropped. I knew it. You knew it. And you still did everything in your power to save those people. There is nothing more to be asked than that."

"And what about when it's me?" Tears streamed silently from John's eyes as he spoke. "When I give up on this doomed quest to be one of the good guys and just face up to the truth. I kill people, Harold. It's what I do. You should get out while you still can."

Harold brushed his hands down through John's hair again so they were cupping the sides of his face, his thumbs absently brushing away stray tears. He carefully lowered himself to sit beside John on the edge of the bathtub.

"John." He tried to keep his voice clear. "I have no desire to 'get out' as you picturesquely put it. Nor is it of concern to me what you used to do - right now, you save people. You and I, every day."

"You are not that man." Harold wished fervently he could make John believe it. "Do you understand me?"

"I was, Harold." John's eyes were bright with tears. "For so long. Does it really matter who I'm trying to be now?"

Harold felt as if his words were drops of rain, hitting a window pane and bouncing off. Perhaps the failure of words implied the necessity of action.

Harold pulled John's face toward his own and lightly pressed their lips together. John tensed. Harold pressed again, this time with increased urgency. He had to make him understand.

A few seconds passed, and Harold would have sworn he actually felt something shudder and break inside John. In an instant, he was pulling Harold close to him, returning the kiss with the same frantic desperation that had gripped him minutes prior.

Relief flooded through Harold. He hadn't lost him. Hadn't failed him. In his joy, he slid his arms around John's neck and allowed himself a few seconds of just existing in the warmth of the moment.

Though the words seemed perfunctory at this point, Harold felt they were still in need of saying. He pulled back and laid his forehead against John's. "Who you're trying to be now...trust me when I say it is the _only _thing that matters."

John closed his eyes and nodded slowly before sliding his head down to rest on Harold's shoulder. A companionable silence, then, "I may have ruined your floor..."

Harold smiled. "I'm sure it's been through worse. I'll have our mutual friend take care of it in the morning."

"Fusco doing housework?" John sounded distinctly amused. "Now that's something I'd pay to see."

"Well, you won't be getting a chance to," Harold said firmly. "I'm putting you on bedrest for at least the next few days."

"Harold, you know I can't do that. If another number drops..."

"Then you'll be no use to whoever it belongs to with your hands out of commission. You push this, and there'll be permanent damage. Where would all those people be then?"

John sighed, and Harold knew that victory was his. "Come on," he said, carefully maneuvering the two of them to their feet, "the sooner we get you some rest, the sooner you can get back to work."

"Fine," John said, slinging an arm around Harold's shoulder as they made their way toward the door, "but if I'm staying in bed, so are you."

Harold hoped dearly that he wasn't blushing. "Now, come, Mr. Reese, wouldn't that rather defeat the point of giving your hands time to heal?"

John leaned very close before whispering, "You'd be amazed what I can do without my hands."

If he hadn't been blushing before, Harold certainly was now. "I will take it as a positive sign of your recovery that you're trying to win an argument by flirting with me."

"Hey," John said, stopping suddenly. "Thank you. Again. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here, I really don't."

Harold carefully lifted one of John's injured hands between his own. "Yes, well, you wouldn't be entirely remiss in assuming that feeling was a mutual one."

John grinned and leaned in close again. "So, about that bedrest..."

Harold knew enough to capitulate while it still seemed a little under his control. "Well, you do need to be monitored. Maybe just a day or two..."


End file.
